Bruises
by nataxaromanoff
Summary: Clint confronts Natasha about the bruises on her wrists. She remembers her past. Written long before AOU, rated for mention of child abuse.


Habits

At first, he figured the bruises that looped her right wrist like a bracelet was simply from missions. She always somehow ended up handcuffed to a wooden chair at some point, and the enemies still hadn't learnt that she would end up smashing the chair around their heads at some point too. Then, when the pair had 3 months-worth of downtime on his farm, he guessed the marks had to be something else. After a whole month, the bruises still hadn't faded and were just as prominent as before. In fact, he noticed the bruises didn't even have time to turn purple or yellow, her wrist was a constant painful looking brown.

While on his farm, during the first 2 months, Clint and Natasha slept in separate rooms. Clint had originally given Natasha a large airy room with a double bed; she had refused it, saying that it felt too big. She now slept in one of the smaller back bedrooms. It had a metal-framed single bed that Clint had been meaning to replace for years, but Natasha insisted it was comfortable; it also had a small wood wardrobe and a set of drawers that acted as a bedside table. The window looked out upon grassy flatlands, leading to the foothills of the mountain range that circumferenced the entire farm like an enormous natural barrier for the outside world; perfect for recovering from a particularly tricky mission.

It was a hot morning mid-August (nearing the end of their second month off) that Clint finally spoke up. They were sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, a bowl of fruit between them. Natasha was idly drawing patterns with her finger on the table. Clint tried his best not to stare at the bruises, fearing what they really were, but he couldn't help himself. He cared for her too much.

"Tasha". She jumped a little as he stirred her out of her thoughts, but only a trained eye like his would have seen it.

"hm?" Her hand began to retreat back to her lap, but Clint caught it. He held it lightly in fear of hurting her.

"You going to explain what this is?" He turned her hand over gently, stroking the bruises as he did so. She watched as he did so, before glancing up to look into his eyes.

"It's not what you think it is." Was Natasha's only reply.

"Oh yeah? So what is it then?" Clint felt a hint of anger rising in him, but he supressed it. Natasha sighed. It was as a good a time as any to explain.

"Okay. Fine." She paused, glancing back down where Clint still stroked her wrist. "I started training with the KGB when I was 7. We all did. At that age, we were prone to trying to escape during the night. When they first started training girls nearly 60 years earlier, they commonly resorted to shooting the girls who tried to escape. I don't know if that's true or just rumours, but it sounds like something they would have done. Eventually, they found a less…violent… method of stopping us." Natasha pulled her wrist from Clint's light grip and moved to stand in front of the wide kitchen window. She leant on the work surface and drummed her fingers rhythmically on it. Clint stood to join her and the pair stood parallel. Although they weren't a couple, everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D rumoured they were, and truly, Clint didn't mind all that much. Natasha didn't seem all that bothered by the harmless banter either. Natasha continued: "They took to handcuffing us to the beds; the handcuffs were attached to the right bedpost, the other side tightened around our right wrist every night. We weren't released until 5am the next morning, when we began training. At first it was painful, what with the awkward angle to sleep in and the constant bruising. But after a while, it became normal. It was even a source of comfort, an attachment when we could have no others…" Natasha stopped again, her fingers still drumming the kitchen side. She didn't look at Clint, instead staring out across the mountains.

"Must be a hard habit to break." Clint's voice was soft and reassuring. He finally understood what the bruises were.

"Yeah" Natasha replied airily. She hated doing it, and it was really not practical when she was on a mission and needed quick escapes. But she couldn't help it. She didn't know how to stop.

"I could help you stop, you know?" it was as if he had read her mind. She now looked up at him. His eyes were as kind and understanding as they always were. She was used to trusting him with her life on missions, but now she wanted their lives to be one. Just one whole life she would entirely trust him with in a heartbeat.

"Can you?" of course he could, but Nat felt this was the only appropriate response. Their faces were so close they were sharing the minimal air between them. Well they would have been if either of them could breathe. Clint leant down and kissed her lightly. She kissed him back. This might be her new habit she can't break.

Natasha lay on the bed, arm held high in the unnatural position she was used to. Except tonight, it was a little different. Clint sat on the cold wooden floor in Natasha's room, wide awake. His fingers curled gently around her wrist. The overused handcuffs hung unused on the bedframe. From this day on, Clint and Natasha never slept in separate rooms again, and Natasha no longer needed her old handcuffs. The end of one habit and the beginning of another.


End file.
